


Jersey Baby

by foulzombie



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Pyromania, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 05:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2013405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foulzombie/pseuds/foulzombie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank burns his guitar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jersey Baby

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm working on a story I dubbed 'emo fic', where Gerard is depressed and Frank is a pyromaniac, and originally I was going to work on a song!fic to Lana's song Brooklyn Baby, but then it turned into an excerpt from 'emo fic' except from Frank's point of view. Title stayed the same because I'm lazy.
> 
> This is for the homies on Twitter.

_Fire is a wonderful and entrancing_  
 _thing — a flickering flame is a thing_  
 _of beauty and endless fascination._

The apartment is dark and silent, moonlight spilling from cracks in the curtains. Frank sat on the floor, back pressed against the cold wall and knees drawn to his chest. It hurt to breathe, to move and think and do anything. Hazel eyes scanned what he could in the room--the brown couch, old and covered in who-knows-what, and the makeshift coffee table he made in school once. Scattered around the room were pieces of his guitar, white parts shining in the dark.

His eyes cast downward to the bruises on his arms, the dried blood and cuts. Even closing his eyes reminded him of earlier that day and he shook the thoughts away before they could hurt him more.

Taking a deep breath, Frank tried to hold back the emotions and tears that threatened to overcome him. He turned his attention back to the curtains, fluttering softly in the midnight breeze, catching glimpses of the apartment building next door.

He wondered if _he_ was okay. Frank's fingers twitched, almost as though he were reaching for his phone automatically, ready to dial the number familiar by heart. But he knew that _he_ wasn't home.

The hospital.

He hasn't moved from his spot against the wall since he destroyed his guitar, disrupting his neighbours yet again in an attempt expel his anger. He knew what would help, his fingers ached for it and his eyes wanted the light and warmth, the fiery dance. He eyed the broken guitar--it was unfixable, he needed a new one. With a groan, he got up from the floor, joints aching with being in the same position for hours.

Frank quickly bagged the guitar pieces, then put it inside another bag when the other one started to rip. He left the apartment, slowly stumbling down the stairs. His body was still sore from the fight and he was pretty sure there were still some flakes of glass in his palm but he didn't care at the moment.

Tossing the bag in the backseat of his car, Frank left the parking lot and sped off to the beach. There was a small area surrounded by trees that no one bothered going to because it was it was covered in rocks, dead trees and driftwood. It was Frank's spot.

As he weaved his way through the trees, he could hear a party going on farther down, far enough to be on the sand but not close enough to the pier. He used to do this underneath the pier--he'd find small twigs and bundle them together, dumping lighter fluid and watching them flame up. He'd burn any garbage around that he'd see, convincing his younger self that he was doing it to clean the beach. After almost having the pier catch fire and getting caught, he ran along the shore until he found his spot, nestled between the water and a small hill and thick with trees.

The area now was different, with a spot in the middle cleared of debris, leftover wood burned black at the bottom of the small pit Frank dug. He emptied the bag on top of the wood, carefully setting all the guitar pieces into the middle before producing the container of lighter fluid from his pocket. He dumped until he was satisfied, then capped it and set it far from the pit, taking out his lighter and a piece of newspaper after. He crouched down and flicked the lighter, slowly bringing the flame close to the paper and when the flame was satisfactory, tossed it onto the guitar, flame spreading in a split second.

He scooted back until he sat on a pile of dead branches and leaves, watching the flames lick the air and slowly burn his beloved Pansy.

He remembered when he first showed his guitar to Gerard, feeling almost scared and wary. But Gerard didn't laugh or make fun of the name, which at the time shocked Frank. Now he knows that Gerard doesn't do much laughing or talking, or much of anything, really. It was probably what drew Frank to Gerard so much--maybe he viewed it as a challenge, to see Gerard smile and laugh, to talk excitedly about something.

It amazed Frank how he didn't put it together. The depression and anxiety, never wanting to leave his house… Frank thought it was enough, him and Mikey. They saw Gerard every day, they got him to laugh and babble about art for hours. They attacked Gerard's wall with kind words and phrases, scribbling out the negative thoughts that filled the wooden panels before.

It was Frank who got Gerard to talk about his problems. They sat in Gerard's backyard, leaning on a tree and smoking cigarettes, talking for hours. Frank confessed that he was scared to come out to his mom and he wanted to leave, that he was scared about the future and wasn't sure he wanted to go to college anymore. Then it was Gerard's turn, and he talked and talked and cried until the sun was in the sky.

"It wasn't always this bad," he started, staring down at the cigarette in his hand and avoiding Frank. "I mean, I was always kind of an introvert. I didn't have many friends in school, I was known as the weird kid who draws violent comics, you know? Then I went to college, moved out, and it just… I was sad and lonely, and I felt like I annoyed everyone I talked to, so I just avoided talking in general. If I said or did something stupid, it would bother me for days--I'd feel bad because I looked stupid and been a nuisance to that person." Gerard finished his smoke and stubbed it out on the ground.

"Then what?" Frank asked, voice lower than before, hesitant and careful.

"Drank a lot, dropped out," replied Gerard, voice wavering and when Frank looked at him, his eyes were wet. "I couldn't handle it anymore. I moved into the basement and just… stopped living, in a sense. My anxiety got worse, my depression got worse and I just wanted to end it all, you know? Even now with you here, Frankie, I still feel it, and then I feel guilty because you're the best thing in my life. I feel like killing myself, all the time, and I feel bad because you can't be with me twenty-four seven to keep me happy, and that's not healthy. And I…" he trailed off, fingers picking at his fingernails, one of his index fingers bleeding from being too short. With a sigh, he added, "I'm too needy, I'm just gonna scare you away with my problems. I'm sorry, I'll--"

"Listen to me," Frank said, voice stern. Before Gerard had the chance to respond, Frank grabbed his face with his hands and pulled him in, pressing his lips against Gerard's. He needed Gerard to know that it didn't matter, that he was still the weirdly fascinating, basement-dwelling artist with a monster obsession. He pulled away and pressed his forehead against Gerard's. "You could never annoy me, okay? I don't make fun of you in my head when you say dumb things and I don't think you're a waste of space. I like you, a lot."

Gerard shook his head softly, eyes still shut tight. "But you will. I'll get on your nerves and you'd realize how stupid and useless I am, and you'd leave."

"I won't," replied Frank, using his thumbs to wipe the tears from Gerard's eyes. "I'd tell you, okay? If you ever piss me off, I'll tell you. No guessing allowed." He pressed his lips to Gerard's again, quickly, just enough to reassure him. He didn't want to take advantage of Gerard when he was upset.

He pulled back, biting on the inside of his cheek. Gerard was looking down at his hands again, hair shielding most of his face from Frank. Finally, he looked up and smiled that crooked smile that Frank liked so much.

"Okay," he said, voice soft and sounding a little watery.

Frank smiled back, brushing Gerard's crazy hair off his face before he twisted around, pressing himself against Gerard as he grabbed the pack of smokes. He lit them both a cigarette and tried not to grin too stupidly when their fingers brushed when he handed Gerard his. Settling his head on Gerard's shoulder, they smoked in silence as they watched the rest of the sunrise.

Which was exactly what Frank was doing now, only without the warmth of Gerard's body against his but instead the flames, dying down but still big enough to burn the shit out of the guitar.

Once in a while the sun would shine out from behind the trees, temporarily blinding Frank and he'd look down at the ground, wondering what the visiting hours at the hospital were and if he could get there before Gerard's parents. Maybe this time, Gerard would be awake and he wouldn't get kicked out. He needed to apologize for the fight and to hear from Gerard himself that it wasn't his fault.

Even thought Frank was pretty sure it was his fault, he wanted to hear it anyway.


End file.
